


Overwatch: MLG

by DeathMcGunz



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7786144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathMcGunz/pseuds/DeathMcGunz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow the story of a group of high-schoolers as they attempt to go pro playing their favorite game in the unforgiving brackets of Overwatch: MLG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Maya doesn’t want to play Mercy anymore.”  
  
“What, huh? What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean we were talking at lunch about the things you said yesterday and she—  
  
“Really? She knows I didn’t mean that shit, right? It was just a joke.”  
  
“Right, right, man. Well she was really upset about it all and—  
  
“Did you tell her I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean it? Cause I mean, I didn’t, you know?”  
  
“Right, yeah. She was still really upset and she said that she didn’t really appreciate it and—  
  
“Appreciate—man, I’ll tell her. I’ll fuckin’ tell her I’m sorry. What do you mean she doesn’t want to play anymore?”  
  
“She didn’t say that, really.”  
  
“Didn’t say what? That she didn’t appreciate it?”  
  
“No, no. She definitely said that.”  
  
“What’d she say?”  
  
“She said that she was upset and hurt by what you said during the match last night and—  
  
“And now she doesn’t want to play?”  
  
“Mercy.”  
  
“Mercy?”  
  
“She doesn’t want to play Mercy.”  
  
“Oh, shit. So she still wants to play?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“She doesn’t want to play?”  
  
“No, yeah. She does. I think. I don’t know. She just said she’s not playing Mercy anymore.”  
  
“What’d she say exactly?”  
  
“Exactly?”  
  
“Yeah, exactly. Fuckin’ tell me word for word what she said to you.”  
  
“She said something like, I don’t know, like, ‘if he’s gonna act like that to me I ain’t playin’ Mercy no more.’”  
  
“She said that?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“She said she won’t play Mercy?”  
  
“Well she said ‘that angel bitch’ but yeah.”  
  
“But she never said she wouldn’t play?”  
  
“No. She didn’t say that. Not really—  
  
“Not really?”  
  
“But man, you should really apologize.”  
  
“Oh, of course. I’ll get down and kiss her feet or whatever. Fuck it. As long as she’s still playing.”  
  
“Aight, man. Well I gotta get home. Let the pup out and stuff.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Online?”  
  
“I’ll be on by five.”  
  
“Four thirty. We gotta talk to everyone before practice.”  
  
“I’ll try, man.”  
  
“God damn right.”  
  
The sidewalk was slick with the morning’s rain. Packs of teenagers clamored around the school steps and made boring conversation. Used cars lined up down the block, idling away with bored parents behind the wheels. Everything was grey and bland.  
Cameron stayed on the bleachers in the park across the street. His yellow chucks were damp and covered by the ragged ends of his jeans. A cold breeze drifted across the dead football field. He pulled the hood up over his ears. Chris looked back one last time before he disappeared between the row of cars. Cam gave him a nod. A squad of girls in skirts and big jackets giggled about something mundane and Cam looked at their bare legs. A dull-green van pulled up and they all got in.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Yo,” Cam said. Remy climbed the bleachers and took a seat. Her jeans hugged tight against her stick-bug legs, and her long hand spilled over her shoulder and down her back. “Maya doesn’t want to play Mercy anymore.”  
  
“What? Really?”  
  
“Yeah. She told Chris at lunch.”  
  
“That bitch.” Remy twirled a strand of her hair around her finger. “Did she say why?”  
  
“Something about something I said to her.” A pebble tossed into the mud. “I don’t know. It’s stupid.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah.”  
  
They stared out at the dwindling crowd of students.  
  
“You think I said something wrong.”  
  
“I didn’t say that.”  
  
“Oh come on. I wasn’t that harsh. I’ve said a lot worse to her.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I mean, and I’m going to apologize.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“She knows I didn’t even mean it.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Remy hopped from the top bleacher. Her sneakers spit in the mud. She looked back at Cam, over her shoulder, late winter breeze blowing her hair like a shade in front of her face. “Cam,” she said. “Please don’t make this worse than it has to be.”  
  
“Come on.”  
  
“Cam,” she said. “I’m serious.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.”  
  
She walked to the line and got into a car. It was a dying, old rock-star in the parade of drear. There were rattling bits of metal that sounded off as it idled, and the hinges of the door creaked as Remy got in. The woman driving was a dried out version of her daughter, edging out the door of beauty and into a canyon of wrinkles. As the car pudded off and away, Cameron slid off the bleachers and pushed an earbud in. Soft tunes pulsed into his ears and provided a soundtrack to carry him home.  
  
The walk only served to make Cam sweaty. And the old beater that sat in his mom’s driveway made him hesitant to go inside. I could key this fucker right now, he thought. No one would ever know. Someone was laughing inside. It was a forced laugh. Much too loud and way past the cusp of awkward. He composed himself before going in.  
  
The inside smelled like a cheap candle and there was a half-eaten pair of sneakers by the run next to his mom’s flats. Some news broadcaster spoke out the recent school shooting on the television, but no one was there to watch him. In the kitchen his mother pushed out another laugh, and a man’s voice, the voice of a next door neighbor, talked low.  
  
“And that’s why I don’t let Kenny in the garage anymore.”  
  
“Oh gosh,” his mother said. “That’s just the best story I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“Hey, mom.”  
  
“Sweetie! Oh, come here.” She hopped down from the counter and scurried over to give him a hug, the kind that lasted too long to make up for hugs never given, and pressed too tight to make up for the separation of years. Her cigarette cologne had an usual brand, and her dress was that of a woman trying to be younger than she was. This woman’s name was Terri, not mother, or mom. She was the Harley Quinn to an otherwise normal yet distant mother.  
  
“Hey, sport,” said the blonde haired douche leaning against the oven. The blue stove-fire was burning and weed crumbs laid across the clean, white surface. They hid it when I came in, he thought. That’s why she hugged me, to buy him time. “How was school?” Tattoos of foreign symbols and cruddy pythons twisted up and down his arms, most of them faded from cheap construction work and roofing jobs. Tattered boots hung on his feet, the soles flopping loose from his toes.  
  
“Ralph,” Cam said, letting his arms hang by his side in protest. His mother stopped hugging him and took her lit cigarette from behind her ear to puff. “Is this…are you going out tonight?”  
  
“Oh, no, Cam, no, no,” she said. Her jubilant spin took her back to Ralph’s arms. “Ralph’s staying here.”  
  
“Tonight?”  
  
“Yes,” she said.  
  
“Can I stay at Chris’s house then?”  
  
“Cam, dear, no. This is something you’ll have to get used to.”  
  
“I am used to it. He stays sometimes, you go with him sometimes. I just don’t like him very much.”  
  
“Woah there.”  
  
“Cameron Jones.”  
  
“I’ll just pack my bag.”  
  
“Cameron, stop,” she said. “Listen to me. Mr. Connor is going to be staying here for a while.”  
  
“Jesus, Mom. His name is Ralph. Not Mr. Connor.”  
  
“Well actually my last name is—  
  
“And what? He’s gonna be here a week or something? Where’s he gonna sleep?”  
  
“Cam, honey, he’s going to sleep with me.”  
  
“Yeah I am,” Ralph said with a grin.  
  
“Stop it, you,” she said, blushing. “And no, not a week—  
  
“Thank, god,” Cam said. “Just five more minutes of this is going to make me want to slit my wrists.”  
  
“Cameron!”  
  
“Hey, son, that’s a serious issue with young teens here in America.”  
  
“Where’d you read that? High Times?”  
  
“They’ve got good articles.”  
  
“Ralph,” Terri said. “Please. And Cam, he’s staying for more than a week.”  
  
“A month, Mom? A freaking month with this guy? I can’t do it.”  
  
“Cameron Jones, listen to your Mother this instant.” Cameron fell silent. “Mr. Connor is my good friend and I can have him stay whenever I like. This is my house. I pay for it. Not you. And he’s going to be staying for as long as we remain good friends. Could be months, could be a year—  
  
“Could be till we get married,” Ralph said. Cameron’s nostrils flared. When his eyes hit Ralph’s the blonde prick stopped grinning and leaned back against the cabinets.  
  
“Could be,” Terri said. “The point is, he will be here. He lives here for now. You’re just going to have to get used to it. My house, my rules.”  
  
“I thought it was our house,” Cam said, his eyes like spotlights shining on the indecent, moving focus to his mother. Then he turned and left the room.  
  
Upstairs in his room posters that showed the timeline of his gaming, from Halo 2 to Halo 3 and Modern Warfare, to Mass Effect and then onto Modern Warfare 2 and Black Ops before Halo Reach and on and on up until the Master Chief Collection and his last poster, the biggest and boldest of them all: Overwatch, lined the wall. The poster featured Mercy prominent in the center, flanked by Hanzo and the gang. It was a custom made poster just for Cameron and his crew, commissioned using the money he saved up over the summer. The two windows let in the afternoon breeze and the drapes blew heavenly into the room. Under the bed were crates of old systems, old games, anything old that wasn’t used but held memories or years. Cartridges of the old Pokémon games that had long stopped working, or ones that were completed and put into their own special containers and labeled with the date of retirement. The bed sheets were tucked nice and neat, just as they were every morning, pillow cases were laying dried on the bed to be put back on. Clothes hung pressed in the closet, ready for the week.  
  
Cameron tossed his book bag on the bed and went to the television stand, unplugging cords and wrapped them neatly, using old bread-ties to keep them together. Blood flushed his cheeks and his heart beat drew sweat to his brow. His shoulders stayed hunched and rose with each forced breath through his grit teeth. With the PS4 unhooked he fit it in the bag first, sliding the cords afterward, followed by the controller. His three go-to games went next. After that he forced his television remote and cord into his front pouch. The TV itself came off the stand and he set it next to the door with his book bag. There wasn’t much space left in the bag itself, so Cam just forced in a few pairs of socks and boxers before zipping it up for good.  
  
With that he slung the bag, shouldered the TV and headed down the stairs. Terri’s laughter was thick in the kitchen as the smell of weed wafted around regardless of how many windows they opened. Maybe I can get out without them hearing me, he thought. But the TV was so long it bumped into the railing of the stairs as he got towards the bottom. With that plan ruined he made a dash for the door.  
  
“Cam? Honey?” The TV made it difficult to quickly open the door. “What…what’re you doing?”  
  
“I’m going to Chris’s.”  
  
“For tonight?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Cam, please—  
  
“And every night that he’s here. He stays here, I stay there.”  
  
“Cameron—  
  
“I don’t like him, Mom. You know that. I mean,” he leaned in as he spoke. “He’s smoking weed in the fucking kitchen right now. You flip your wig if you even think you smell it on me.”  
  
“No son of mine will smoke weed,” she said. “And no he’s not.”  
  
“Don’t fucking lie to me like that. Right to my face. You only lie when he’s here.” She recoiled but didn’t rebuttal. “I’m going to Chris’s. I’ll…text later. We can get   
lunch or something. Okay?”  
  
“Cameron,” she sighed. “Just be safe. Okay?”  
  
He nodded. She hugged him. He left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cameron tries to fix his team and things just keep getting worse.

Chris’s house was a coffin. A trailer routed in the ground with lattice gilding and a young cherry tree in the front yard. Tall grass infiltrated the yard along with weeds and garbage blown in by the wind. In the overgrown driveway, two cars sat. Only one worked, the Cadillac. The other car, a brown, rusty husk with an engine older than the house, sat one three flat tired. One miraculously held its air, like it was the last leg to go un-kicked.  
  
Inside, the shag carpet came up in clumps, with patches of pop stains that created sticky tangles in the weaves. The faux-wood paneling was cracked from the hot summers and cold winters. In the bathroom you’d find mold and a spider web under the sink. Chris’s room was tucked in the back, beyond the kitchen/living room and down a tight corridor. His room had a bathroom but only a half wall separated it from his room and the sliding-glass, closet doors on the adjacent wall made privacy impossible.  
  
On the off weekend where Cameron would stay at Chris’s house instead of the other way around, they’d set up Cameron’s TV in one corner and move Chris’s to the other corner so they could sit back to back, in-table between them for their pops and chips, speakers on blast with the latest Linkin Park album or some Red Hot Chili Peppers, while they played match after match of Halo 2 in grade school, or Halo 3 in junior high. When midnight rolled around they’d put it on pause, put on their sneakers and walk the four blocks to the twenty-four-hour gas station. If it was raining they’d snag the keys to Chris’s father’s car and drive careful down the back alleys with the lights off, snickering as they ran over the neighbor’s garbage can. When they got back to the house it’d continue through till Saturday morning where they’d catch an hour or two of sleep before being woken up by Chris’s Mom with Burger King breakfast and then they’d be right back at it.  
  
Toronto, Chris’s monster of a dog, greeted Cam as he walked up, hands full. Chris was outside filling the water bowl with a big steel bucket.  
  
“Hey, hey,” Chis said. “What’s up, man? What’s, uh, going on?”  
  
“I gotta crash with you tonight.”  
  
“Oh—  
  
“And maybe the next night too.”  
  
“Well I—  
  
“It might be a while if I’m being honest with you, Chris.”  
  
“A while?”  
  
“I’m talking a week, two months tops.”  
  
“Oh,”  
  
“It’s just,” Cam said, handing the TV to Chris. “That fuckin’ Ralph guy is staying with my mom for now.”  
  
“Oh, he’s finally moving in?”  
  
“No, Chris. He’s not fucking moving in. He’s just…crashing on the couch for a few days. Like I said, maybe a week or whatever.”  
  
“Oh, so they’re not like, you know, doin’ it anymore?”  
  
“Ew, Chris. What the fuck? And, I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t like, listen in or anything.”  
  
“So he’s not staying in her room then?”  
  
“Well he is.”  
  
“Right, so he’s moving in.”  
  
“No,” Cam said. “He’s not moving in. He’s just crashing, like I said.”  
  
“Sure, okay. But listen man, I don’t know if my mom’s gonna be cool—  
  
“Let me talk to your mom,” Cam said. “Trust me. You just gotta back me up okay?”  
  
“I don’t know…”  
  
“I can’t stay there, man. You know what it’s like. I just can’t do it.”  
  
“Yeah, I knoa—  
  
“You really gonna make me stay there with Ralph and them?”  
  
“I don’t know, man.”  
  
“Come on,” Cameron said. “It’ll be awesome. We can practice and play some fuckin’ Halo even—  
  
“Did you apologize?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Apologize. Did you apologize yet?”  
  
“What? No, man. I was busy dealing with this shit. I was gonna do it right after.”  
  
“Now.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Do it now. If you do it now then you can stay here.”  
  
“You want me to what? Call her?”  
  
“Well, no. You can just text.”  
  
“Text? What am I, Chris? I was going to go to her house after all this. That’s the only way to apologize properly.”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Come on, trust me, man. Just let me put my shit inside, I’ll go talk to her, come back, talk to your mom, get her on my side, and we’ll all be crystal clear by five for practice. Whadaya say?”  
  
They sat still on the porch before Cameron nodded his head. “Sure, alright. But you’re going to her house right after.”  
“Of course I am.”

 

On the other side of town, where the houses stood at least three stories tall, the yards stayed cut, hedges trimmed, trees pruned, cars washed, and all the children stayed inside, an Indian family dwelled in the whitest and tallest of all the houses, with the cleanest car and the nicest yard. A house built on a gambling career that sparked a business which led to simple wealth, more than enough to be spoiled in a small town.  
  
Up on the top floor, in the biggest room, flanked by pink curtains and bedroom fluffing, sitting at a computer built to be kept up to date with the latest video card, pumped full of ram and glowing a low, pulsing pink, Maya twitched away at Overwatch. Anna kept support from the back, firing from the hip, keeping her Reinhardt alive. Her headphones were snug on her tiny head, microphone down while she cursed in Tamil at the idiot playing Tracer who kept rewinding away from her.  
She was built to be a ballerina, with spider limbs, and a long torso, and skin like mocha that stayed consistent across her. Her eyes were like a cartoon character, a tight, button nose squished between them. When she pushed the mouse forward, the sleeve of her flannel, button-up slid up to reveal a tiny bunny tattoo, her own little rebellion forged permanent on her skin.  
  
The house was quiet. Nobody home. Two koi fish swam in a big tank in the main hall.  
  
Cam rang the doorbell and waited, gazing at the flamingos sticking in the yard. Moody clouds clung overhead. Thunder rumbled somewhere. In his mind he thought of the ways the conversation could go, how he could make it sound. The possibility of it ending in a confession of love or a murder both weighed equal in his mind, rumbling like the distant thunder.  
  
“Yeah, coming,” Maya said. She opened the door, looked Cam up and down and said, “Oh.”  
  
“Hi, uh,” Cam said.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I might have said some hurtful things yesterday—  
  
“You called me a dirty bitch, Cameron.”  
  
“I…don’t recall using those words.”  
  
“Well, you did. You said, ‘we lost that match because of you, you dirty bitch.’ I remember.”  
  
“Yeah—  
  
“And that’s not all, Cameron. You’ve said mean things to me before. Stupid Indian. Lazy, retarded.”  
  
“I, uh—  
  
“Frankly, I think we’re all a little sick of your mouth.”  
  
“Woah, woah, listen—  
  
“I want an apology, Cam.”  
  
“That’s what I’m try—  
  
“And I don’t want to play Mercy anymore.”  
  
“Listen—  
  
“I’m tired of support. I wanna be on the front lines.”  
  
“We can—  
  
“I’m just as good as Chris or Remy. Maybe not Christie, but whatever, I’m still good, Cam.”  
  
“Okay!” Maya looked up, noticing Cameron. “Jesus, let me fucking talk, okay?” She nodded, folding her arms, hips swayed. “I came here to say that I was…wait…did you say ‘we’?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Just a second ago. ‘We’re all sick of you’?”  
  
“Yeah, you say some really terrible—  
  
“You’ve been talking about me behind my back?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’ve been complaining about me, behind my back, to everyone else, and now you’re mad at me for saying things to your face?”  
  
“You called me a bitch, Cam.”  
  
“You are a bitch. You complain all the fucking time. You never shut your mouth.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you’re an asshole and everyone says so. Not just me. Chris. Remy. Everyone. They all say so. You’re just an asshole and no one likes you.”  
  
“Oh yeah? Well at least I’m good at the fucking game. You suck. The only reason you’re on the team is because we needed support and you can’t even do that right. You don’t know the maps. You don’t know the characters. You don’t play well. You don’t listen. You nag and complain. You clog up voice chat. You stress everyone out with your constant threats of quitting the team. And you know what? I don’t say it because I would never talk about you behind your back like a little bitch, but everyone else says that they hope you do quit. I always stand up for you. I say ‘no way guy, she’s great, we need her,’ but that shit’s done. It’s over, Maya. No, shut up. You don’t talk anymore. This is my team. Not yours. You do what I say. I came all the way over here to apologize, but no. Fuck you. Fuck you and your stupid fucking shit. You’re off the team.”  
  
“I’m off the team?”  
  
“You’re off the fucking team.”  
  
“I was gonna quit, asshole!”  
  
“Well not anymore!” Cameron turned and walked fast through the yard.  
  
“Fuck you, Cameron. And hey! Use the fucking sidewalk, asshole!”  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
“Asshole!”  
  
Cam’s feet pounded the pavement as the bright red door slammed shut behind him. Puffs of breath came out through snarled lips, face red, head pounding. Each stride laced with fury. He rounded the hedge row and went onto the street, splashing through a puddle by the runoff drain. Curses slipped out of his mouth and venom spilled into his brain, poisoning his thoughts and digging up muddy moments that helped confirm his stance in his mind. He remembered the worst of Maya: the bitching, the nagging at him to put her on flag duty in Halo 3, the uncomfortable time she made out with her boyfriend on the mic while they practiced, thinking she had muted it, and the time she refused to play for the Gamebattles match because she didn’t like the way her hair hung over her forehead. They spiraled around him on repeat, the little clips of her voice smacking his emotions around.  
  
But the feeling was fleeting. With each step the anger diminished and a doubt fell over him, like a ghost, haunting him with the things he had said to her. Feet on the damp road, crossing the streets back into the flat part of town. He stopped at the park and sat on a wet bench, looking over at a group of kids who sat on swings, not moving, just looking at their phones, occasionally sharing words.  
  
Now we only have four, he thought. Christy, Remy, Chris, and Me. The Overwatch bracket required six. Second ticked the time to four o’clock. In an hour he’d have to meet with the rest of the team, sitting in their booth at the local burger joint, and tell them that they didn’t have enough time to find one person, let alone two. The pep-talk that he’d been building all day slipped into the trash bin and was forgotten. He felt the rain cloud above his head.  
  
“Yo, Cam. Hey.” Cam looked up. “Hey, I thought that was you. What’s up? What’re you doing out here? It’s supposed to rain again, you know.”  
  
“Hey,” Cam said. He stood and sauntered to the window. Christy drove the rock-star, beater that picked Remy up from school. She was a beautiful girl, the kind that lived next door and dated guys that could beat her up, but she had the brain and a mouth that kept them in line, most of the time. A tight bun kept her blonde hair held up above her head, and her bare shoulders were pecked with freckles. She looked sweaty.  
  
“What’re you fuckin’ doin’ out here? Need a ride?”  
  
“Sure,” Cam said. He got in.  
  
“Where to, bud?” The car bumped down the road. “You guys still meeting today?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said. “Not for another hour though.”  
  
“We can just drive then, if you don’t got nowhere to be.”  
  
“Sure.” She took the car onto a country road out of town, the kind that wrapped and twisted through the woods, passed the farmers and hillbillies that tucked themselves away from everyone else. The roads were shit and the car shuttered it’s one million pieces with every bump, but Christy took the turns too fast and never used the gas. She knew how to have fun in the midst of nothing.  
  
“So what’s wrong? And don’t give me none of that shit. Just fuckin’ skip that and get to the telling me part.”  
  
“It’s just Maya.”  
  
“Oh? I heard she was upset about some things that were said.”  
  
“Yeah,” Cam said. “I called her on her shit and, yeah, maybe used some harsh words, but come on. I’ve said a lot worse to people in her defense.”  
“That’s true.”  
  
“And, so, get this, I went to apologize today and she started talking mad shit to me. Saying that everyone talks behind my back and hates me and shit, so I just laid into her.”  
  
“Damn, Cam,” Christy laughed. “Sure that’s what you should of done?”  
  
“No,” Cam said. “But it felt good.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“For a second. Then it felt like shit. I don’t know.” Trees blurred past the window. “I didn’t think about the team. We were only down one person. But now we’re down two. I should’ve thought about that before…yeah, I should have just thought about the team first. Not my, whatever that was.”  
“I’m sure the team’ll understand when you tell them, Cam.” Christy put her hand on his shoulder, and no matter how close they were, no matter how long they knew each other, he still blushed. “I’m sorry to have made it even harder on you guys.”  
  
“What? No, you haven’t done anything.”  
  
“Yeah I have. Now you’ve got to find two people.”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Cam said. “We had an empty slot. Then Maya quit. That’s two.”  
  
“Oh,” she said.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Remy didn’t tell you, did she?” Christy gripped the wheel with both hands and looked forward. “Fuck. Fuck, Cam. I’m sorry. This is a shit way to tell you. I wanted her to tell you cause she’s better at this shit than I am. Please, understand that.”  
  
“Just tell me what’s going on.”  
  
“I’m moving, Cam.”  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“Cam—  
  
“Don’t fuckin’ scare me like that.”  
  
“Cam—  
  
“We can still play with you.”  
  
“Cameron, you’re—  
  
“We’ll just skype you into the meetings, Christy. It’s no big deal.”  
  
“Cameron!” The car jerked as she hit the brakes. “Listen to me, god damn it. Look at me. Look at me. I’m moving away. Very far away. I won’t have internet. I won’t have anything.”  
  
“Wha…are you like going off the fucking grid or something? You gonna be with Bear fucking Grylls?”  
  
“Japan.” She said. “I’m going to Japan. I’m going to be working with a group. A relief group. Sort of like Peace Corp. I’m going to be there for a while. Months. I won’t be able to play for months. Not online. Cam, I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”  
  
“Just…just take me to ‘Steak ‘n’ Shake’.” His fingers squeezed the door handle tight.  
  
“Cam…”  
  
“Just take me there.” His voice rattled the car, like a bump in the road. “Please.”  
  
She stared the car on its way, keeping quiet.  
  
Sweat creased Cam’s hairline. The leather of the door creaked under his grip. His jaw tightened as he ground down on his teeth. Against his anger, he felt his eyes water so he closed them. He rolled the window down to feel the thick, autumn air smash against his face. And like the wind passing by them at high speeds, his dreams of going pro slipped out the window.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling defeated, Cameron goes to the diner to wait for the team, when he's visited by a flash of red hope.

A black and white diner sat on the busiest intersection in town, with monochrome curtains, and monochrome style. Its four walls could seat fifty monochrome people, with their plastic menus, and their two-dollar burgers. The booths of monochrome leather were torn and rickety. The chair and their monochrome cushions were older than the manager behind the counters, who walked from table to table in his monochrome uniform with his name tag that said, “hello, welcome to Steak ‘n’ Shake”.

          In the back booth, Cameron had his hands on a fat-stacked burger, slick with grease and gleaming with several slices of cheese. Ketchup dripped down his chin and popped out the backside as he took a bite. He chewed too few times and gulped down a swig of cola before digging into the onion rings. He was eating depressed, using it to feel good, which made him feel like shit, which made him order a milkshake. Double chocolate fudge.

          The clock was ticking closer to five and Cameron didn’t want to face the group. There were too many things to say and none of them were good. It would be a defeat. The third of the day. Three strikes you’re out. He saw no use in putting everyone through that when it would be much easier to pay his bill, walk to Chris’s house, and just play Overwatch. When Chris got home, caked in his dopey form of anger, Cam would just feign ignorance. “Oh, there was a meeting today? Didn’t know.” After that, the team could just slip into obscurity and become one of those things that high schoolers get nostalgic over while they drink their first Jaeger Bomb.

          Another bite of the burger. A big gulp of coke.

          The waitress came by and set down the shake. She eyed Cameron, up and down. Eyes that took in his face, abused by acne, and concluded that he was dirty. He knew he cleaned his face and that sometimes skin is just not very cooperative. That’s what his dermatologist said and she knew better than some flunky waitress with stripper hair.

          “The fuck are you lookin’ at?” He said.

          She pulled back, as if slapped. Her face flushed with embarrassment. “Wha? Huh?”

          “I said, what the fuck, are you looking at?”

          “Rude.” She hurried away.

          “Yeah well, I need another coke.” He yelled after her. The couple in the booth next to him looked over with that “did he just say that?” expression. He chewed his bite, holding his coke up for a drink, and opened his mouth to the couple. They turned back to their meal. Back behind the counter, the waitress was talking to her other idiot friends. They took turns looking over their shoulder at Cam, trying to hide it. He just kept staring at them until after the third attempt they pulled themselves further into the back, hiding from him entirely.

          Another bite of burger. Big gulp of coke. Both were finished and he wiped his lips with the one napkin she had left for him. Like some kind of fuckin’ joke. One napkin for a grease ball between buttery buns. The onion rings got dipped into a mound of ketchup and stuffed into his mouth. All the more food he took in, the less the day’s events weighed on his mind. It was a trick his mom had taught him. When he used to miss his dad she’d drive him to burger king for chicken nuggets and a Pokémon toy. “All better,” she’d say.

          The waitress strolled up with the coke he asked for, fake smile on her face. She put it on the table and stood there for a beat.

          “You spit in this?”

          “What?” Her face turned away to the back. “No.”

          “Whatever,” he said. Looking up at her, meeting eyes as she turned back to face him, he chugged the majority of the glass. She looked at the floor before he was finished and walked away as he set the glass down. “Great coke!” She disappeared into the back. “And I need more napkins!”

          He leaned back in the booth and stared at the black and white ceiling. Even the stains were black and white. Shades of boring grey. The bell for the door dinged and Cam looked down into a blazing field of red. Red Chuck Taylors, like blood wrapped around his feet. A red, leather jacket wrapped tight around his childish body. Red Raybands squeezing his nose. And red corduroy pants, the kind that hugged the skin and made skinny legs look long and tight. Cameron wondered if behind the sunglasses, there were red eyes scanning the room for the next kill.

          Cameron shoved another union ring down without looking, getting ketchup on his cheek. Still no extra napkins. The red creature at the door looked around the tops of booths, passing over the couple, over Cameron, to the corner of the room, then back to Cameron. He smiled with feminine lips and white teeth, waved his girly hand and walked, long leg over another, hips swaying, to Cam’s booth.

          The booth made no sound at the addition of his weight.         

          “Cameron? Cameron Jones?” His voice was like a girl’s. “I’m Lindsay.” No, not like a girl’s.

          Lindsay removed the Raybands and tucked them into a jacket pocket. Hazel eyes with long lashes and hints of mascara around the ends to point them. He was a she. It was a girl.

          “I was told that you had a team,” she said. “I played semi-professionally in Dallas a few years ago. Gamertag is little x, big x, super fly, super with an ‘a-h’, big x, little x. My team was sponsored by my city of Atlas Colorado, Dad’s Rootbeer, of which I have a lifetime supply, and even Raybands at one point, of which I also have a lifetime supply. Here, have a pair.” She reached into her pocket and gave him a yellow pair of ‘bands. “I’d like to join your team because it seems like a good team. I watched your tapes and think I would fit well. I think I deserve to be a part of the teams because I’m a great team player, I’m responsive, a fast learner. My biggest weakness is that I work too hard at things sometimes and can get extremely competitive. Other than that, I don’t expect a salary as I understand tournament winnings only come to winning teams. But I believe with me, your team could win tournaments, sir.”

          The booth was silent. The couple next to Cam got up and paid their ticket at the front. The waitress brought a stack of napkins. Another joke. No one could use that many napkins.

          “That is all,” Lindsay said. Cameron looked into her eyes. They were big and beautiful and filled with an innocence that was palpable. She couldn’t be much older than eleven. Twelve tops. “Do you have any questions for me, sir?”

          “Da…yeah.” Cam pushed his thumbs against his eyes. “What the fuck is this? Some kind of joke? Did Chris put you up to this?”

          “What? No, not at all, sir. Gosh, I’m so sorry. My mom’s out there.” She pointed to a red corvette in the parking lot. A lean, mean woman sat in the driver’s seat, texting. “Chris told me that you’d be here early probably and I wanted to do this. Mom always says in person meetings are better than online meetings. I just…gosh, I’m so sorry.”

          “No, no, stop, stop. I’m…I’m just extremely confused. Chris did tell you to come here?”

          “Yes,” she said. She eyed and union ring. “We have physics together.”

          “You go the high school?”

          “Just for physics.”

          “Just for physics?”

          “It’s a college thing.”

          “You go to college?”

          “No, no, gosh. No.” She looked at the union ring again.

          “Help yourself.” He pushed the plate between them.

          “I really shouldn’t.” She looked out at the red corvette.

          “Please?” Cam pushed it closer. “And tell me everything.”

          She ate an onion ring. “I don’t live here. I live in Chicago upstate.”

          “That’s a three hour drive.”

          “Yup.”

          “Why’d you come down here? How do you have a class with Chris?”

          “Chris is a buddy of mine in our online Physics class. It’s for college prep. It takes in students from all over Illinois.”

          “And he told you to come here?”

          “Well…kinda.” She ate another union ring.

          “Kinda?”

          “He mentioned that you had an opening on your team and needed players. He said you met every Friday at the same burger place in town.”

          “So how’d you find this place?”

          “It’s the only burger place in town.”

          “And he told you who I was?”

          “Yes.”

          “How’d you recognize me?”

          “Facebook.”

          “What the hell?”

          “Isn’t it normal for employees to do research on possible employers?”

          “I don’t know. Is it? It feels weird.”

          “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”

          Cameron sighed. “No, no. It’s fine. This is very fucked up. Chicago?”

          “Yes.”

          “You said something about Colorado.”

          “That’s where I was on a semi-professional team.”

          “So you moved to Chicago?”

          “No. I’ve always lived in Chicago.”

          “Then—

          “Mother travels.” Cameron followed her gaze out to the red corvette.

          “Right.” Cam took an union ring. “And you want to be on our team now?”

          “I’d like to apply or try out if I could, if you still have the availability, I mean.”

          “I’m a sophomore in high school,” Cameron said.

          “I know.”

          “Creepy,” Cam said. “You said something about tapes?”

          “Oh, yes.”

          “We don’t have any tapes. We’ve never played in a tournament before. Did Chris lie to you about something? Listen, if he did, I’m sorry. I can’t do much—

          “He didn’t lie I lied.” She grabbed another onion ring and wolfed it down. “I lied about that. Mom says it’s important to act like you know things that you don’t when applying. I’m sorry. I’ve never seen you play.”

          “We’re not professional.”

          “But Chris said you guys were trying this competitive season if you could fill all your slots.”

          “That’s…god damn it Chris. That’s fuckin’ true, but we’ve never played like that before. You drove all the way from Chicago.”

          “You keep saying that.”

          “It really bothers me.”

          “I can tell.”

          “Is your mom okay with that?”

          “She encourages it.”

          “What?”

          “Listen, Mr. Jones, sir. I am a good Legends player. I’m one of the best. I can go pro and I’m looking for a team that can do it for me. Other teams have not had the rigidity or structure or drive to do it, but the way Chris talked about this team it gave me hope, so my mother drove me here to see if this was worth pursuing. Now tell me, Mr. Jones, sir, was it a waste of my time or have I found a team?”

          “Uh, did you say…Legends?”

          “Yes.”  
          “Like League of Legends?”

          “Yes.”

          Cameron chuckled, a kind of nervous laughter. The kind of laughter that comes from being hit one too many time.

          “I don’t understand what’s so funny.”

          “We don’t play League of Legends,” Cameron choked out. His laughter was out of control now. Lindsay’s cheeks were filling with red, her eyes went down under the table. “We play Overwatch.”

          “Oh my god,” she said. She stood up and then sat back down. Cameron was trying to stop his laughter but he couldn’t. It came out in huge bursts. “Oh gosh. I’m so stupid. Stupid, stupid. Darn it. Darn it. Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She hit herself on the forehead with each utterance of “stupid”. It pulled Cameron from his lapse of sanity and he watched her as she stood up. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Jones. It seems it was I who wasted your time.” He was silent as she walked, nearly ran, out the door. She ran around the side of the building to the red corvette and climbed in the passenger seat. Cam could see that she was crying. Her mother was still texting. They were sharing words while Lindsay continued to sob, hugging her arms in close, looking down at her own feet. Her mother never looked at her, but her lips were moving fast and her neck was flexed like she was yelling. Something in Cameron’s gut made him feel bad, like a bad person, like she was a hurt person, like she had come to him and was asking for help and he had just been bad, he had done wrong, something evil.

          Without looking at her daughter, the mother held out a handkerchief and Lindsay took it, blew her nose into it and wiped her tears with the edges. They were done talking and Lindsay got out of the car and pulled out a little pocket mirror and fixed her eyes there in the parking lot, then she hurried back to the door, composed herself, pulled her clothes more comfortable, and calmly walked back into the building. She smiled at Cameron, waved, and came to the booth, sitting down.

          “I’ve discussed it with my manager, my mother, and she and I both think that a change of pace could be beneficial.”

          “Listen, I really don’t want to waste your time. And, shut up, I’m talking now, and you have not, listen to me, you have not wasted my time. I promise. But we’re just a bunch of high schoolers who are trying to go pro. We don’t have a manager, never had sponsors, never competed before. You seem really serious and that’s great, but I don’t want you to waste your time and money for something that won’t go anywhere.”

          “You don’t want to go pro?”

          “No, I do,” he said. “I really fuckin’ do. More than anything.”

          “That’s how I feel, Mr. Jones. I have wanted this since forever and I will do anything to get it.”

          “I…I feel the same, Lindsay. I really fuckin’ do. I’ve wanted it for so long. But…”

          “But nothing then, sir.” Lindsay’s face was stern, giving it a hue of wisdom, like her soul was beyond her years. “If you want it then that’s all I need.” She smiled. “That and a championship.”

          “I—listen. How long are you going to be in town?”

          “Until we win.”

          “Damn,” Cameron said. “Good line. So you’ll be here tomorrow? Alright. Go with your mom and come by this address, no, wait, just give me your number. I’ll text the address to you. We’ll do a little meeting with everyone. We’ll have you play—

          “Try out.”

          “Yes, try out. We’ll have you try out. We’ll talk, we’ll see what’s happening. Then we can…I don’t know. Make a deal? Is that what people say?”  
          “Sure.”

          “Alright. I’ll text you after this meeting with the rest of the group.”

          “Awesome! Thank you, Mr. Jones. I promise I won’t disappoint.”

          “Overwatch,” Cameron said. Lindsay hopped up and was already at the door. She turned back. “Remember, we’re playing Overwatch.” She nodded and went out the little, red corvette. Her mother didn’t look at her as she drove away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group discusses what the hell they're going to do.

“I don’t know who the hell else we’re gonna get,” Chris said. He sat on the outside of the booth, bouncing his leg as he ate his fries. Remy sat on the inside, tucked against the wall. She had a salad and didn’t eat it.

              “Maybe you can send more of your internet friends our way. Physics, Chris? Come on.”

              “Yeah, I don’t know about here, guys.”

              “I didn’t think she’d listen. I was just being—

              “Yeah, you were just being Chris. But I don’t know either.”

              “I can’t believe you told her you’d let her try out. What is this? Like a job or something?”

              “It could be,” Cam said. “Or at least a hobby that pays well.”

              “We’re not that good though.”

              “We totally could be. We just need the team.”

              “How is a team gonna help if we’re not good. We’ll just hold the good players down.”

              “The team is all that matters. And we are all good enough. We’ve got things we’re good at. We’re smart. We know the maps, the strategies. We’ve just…never really had the people to use that stuff properly.”

              “Yeah,” Chris said. “I always get stuck with the fuckers that don’t pay attention to the healers. Like, hello, Bastion. You don’t need to run off and heal yourself. I’ve got your ass covered.”

              “Shut up, Chris.” Cameron stole a fry from his plate. “But he’s right. We’re good.”

              “I’m not good.”

              “You’re good.”

              “Oh yeah? At what?”

              “You’re…”

              “Yeah, you gotta think about it, don’t you.”

              “I need to put it properly so I don’t piss you off, woman. Let me think.” Cam took another fry. “You’re cautious. That’s the word I was lookin’ for. Which is good. We know that you’ll always be alive. You’ll always be there if we need a push. And with a full team we could do a push while you sit back and snipe, or you can just wait in the wings with Reaper and drop in with your ‘ult’ when we need to cap. You’re like our trump card.”

              “I’m a coward.”

              “You’re cautious.”

              “And I really don’t know about this girl.” Remy stole a fry. “Like, Chicago? She was pro?”

              “Semi-professional.”

              “Whatever. Same thing. She was paid and now she wants to join our team? It just seems…”

              “Strange? Yeah. Tell me about it. I was sitting here when she came in. Her mother was…odd. I think it’s all odd. But I mean, It’s a person.”

              “I feel like it’s either a joke or she’s going to think we’re a joke.”

              “Well you can blame Chris for that—

              “Hey!’

              “Well it’s true, Chris. What if she’s shit?”

              “I don’t think she is.”

              “Have you seen her play?”  
              “Yeah. LoL.”

              “That doesn’t count, Chris.”

              “She’s really good. She streams.”

              “She’s on computer, Chris. We play PS4.”

              “Maybe we should switch to computer?”

              “Right now? You want to have a PC vs. Console debate right now?”

              “Well I’m just suggesting—

              “Right fucking now? When we still need to find two more fucking people?”

              “I guess not.”

              “So I take it Maya’s out?” Remy snagged a fry. Chris waved for the waitress.

              “More fries please?”

              “Listen, I tried to apologize—

              “Mhm.”

              “I did.”

              “And you ended up yelling at her?”

              “Did she text you? Jesus Christ, what a bitch.”

              “Yeah she did text me, but even if she didn’t,  I knew you were gonna fly off the handle.”        

              “She started it.”

              “No Cam, you started it last night.”

              “No, no, no. Listen, she started it. I found out earlier, before the yelling, that she’d been talking about me behind my back. This entire time. She said you all did it.” Cam looked at Chris and Remy over his glasses. “I understand if you did. I just hope you know—

              “Cam, we’d never—

              “I understand if you did…I just hope you know that I would never do that. And if you didn’t, then even more of a reason to kick her to the curb.”

              “She quit.”

              “No, no. Stop that shit right now.”

              “No, that’s what she said. In the text.”

              “That lying—I fired her. I said it first.”

              “Does it really matter, Cam? We’re still down two people.” The waitress brought another plate of friend and Remy slid it in front of her in exchange for her salad.

              “Hey,” Chris said. Remy started eating the fries in clumps.

              “Besides,” she said, stopping to swallow. “Let’s say, old and new willing, that we find a full team. What then? What’s the point, Cam? Wasn’t the whole point of this to have like, I don’t know, an excuse to hang out that we could give our parents? Soon we’ll be driving and we can just do whatever we want anyways.”

              “No, that wasn’t the point. The point was to win a tournament. Or place in a tournament. Or just be considered a pro team.”

              “Just doesn’t seem viable.” Remy squirted ketchup on the plate and dipped more fries. Chris picked at the salad. Cam took in a deep breath and looked through his thoughts.

              “It is viable, Rem. It’s totally viable. This is the age to do it. I mean, what, we’ve got two more years? Four if you’re going to community college? That’s four years tops in this city, together, with everyone. Not only that, but it’s four years of free time. I know my mom will let me stay with her but I know Chris’s mom is waiting to drop the boot on him. Your mom’s pretty cool but I know that I don’t want to live with my mom. Shit’s gonna be different. That’s what they all say, right? And even if they’re all full of shit and it’s just like high school, we might actually know what we want to do with our lives at that points. We might actually have shit to do. People to be with. You know? We might hate fuckin’ playing videogames. Don’t look at me like that, Chris. You know what I fuckin’ mean.

              “Final Boss won almost 300,000 dollars in Halo 2 alone. In two years. That’s two fucking years. 300,000 dollars. That was back when Halo 2 was big and now esports, gaming in general, it’s so big that shit’s going to be off the hook. This year, just this month, in Seattle, the Dota Major Championship gave nine million dollars to first place. Nine million fuckin’ dollars.

              “I know, I know, it’s not all about the money. Overwatch isn’t even like that yet, but Blizzard bought MLG and is probably going to pump major bucks into tourneys and shit. It’s not about the money, no, no. It’s supposed to be about the game or whatever. You know what all those famous people say, ‘I don’t do it for the money’. Bitch, it’s their job. It’s a job. No matter if they’re in a band or painting with their cock or whatever. It’s a job and money is there. And a job is like eight hours a day, five days a week? That’s a normal job, right? We do that shit right now. We’re already playing full time. So why not look to get paid for it?

              “Look, I don’t even know what I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about anymore. All I know is that we have a chance ta fuckin’ get rich playing a fucking video game. We don’t have to do anything else. We just have to keep doing what we’re doing, but just steer ourselves in that direction. You say it’s not viable. There’s fucking twelve year-olds in Korea who have millions of dollars because they like League of Legends. That girl, Lindsay, the one that came in, her mother had a beautiful, new, red Corvette. From the way she was talking, her mom’s her manager. So she’s doing manager stuff and they bought a fuckin’ Corvette. That’s college money, Remy. That’s money for a house, Chris. Fuck, we could get a cheap place together and not worry about shit for a while. While everyone else is out working at McDonalds, or the grocery store, we can be playing Overwatch as hard as we do now and making money.

              “We can do it, guys. We can fuckin’ do it. I just…we can do it. We can.” Cam was sweaty. The diner, dead just moments ago, came alive with the evening rush. It was five thirty and booths filled up all around the three kids and their one plate of fries.

              “I’m in.”

              “Fuck you, Chris. I know you’re in.”

              “Fuck you too.”

              “That’s nice and all, Cam,” said Remy. “And I’m with you. One hundred percent. But we still don’t have a full team. I mean, when is a tournament? We do we even need to be ready?”

              “The next competitive season starts in September. I’d say we should find people by the end of next week. We can all meet for a full team meeting and plan. Figure out a schedule or something.”

              “We can look online for people.”

              “Yeah,” said Remy. “We could actually have try outs.” A smile peaked from her stoic face.

              “I think we, just us three, should try to figure out exactly what position we want to play. I think the beauty of Overwatch is that everyone can literally play anything, but I also think you know, we’re all good at certain things and should stick with what we’re good at.”

              “Well Christy was our best player.”

              “She was our slayer.”

              “Oh yeah, for sure.”

              “So we need a slayer. We need somebody who’s actually good at games. Like, good at aiming. And Remy you really are a wild card. You can play our backup, slash ‘whatever-we-need’ sort of role. We lost our Mercy though. Maybe you can do support?”

              “I can do Mercy,” Chris said. “I like playing as her. And I’m good at healing. I sometimes jump into the wrong situations, but I can work on it.”

              “You’re usually a good Torbjorn too. You could be our defense or support guy. What about Reinhardt? Are you good with him? I feel like him and Bastion are sort of necessary.”

              “I think our slayer will be Bastion, won’t he?”

              “Not necessarily. If we find a good Soldier player, that’d be sick. Just to have someone who can hit their marks. Even if they played Hanzo or Genji. Someone who’s deadly accurate. Bastion, shit, I can play Bastion if we need him. I just don’t prefer it. I figured I’d run Tracer on attack, or Reaper. I like getting behind enemy lines. I’ve gotten really fuckin’ good at the rewind and the teleport for Reaper.”

              “Yeah, I think you’re right. You’re definitely an asshole.”

              “Fuck you, Chris.”

              “No, he’s right.”

              “Fuck all ya’ll. But seriously. So we’ve got stealth, Chris on support with healing, Remy on whatever. Back up, push assist type person. Maybe we can get you on Reinhardt.”

              “I don’t know. I never know when to lower the shield.”

              “Well, what’s that leave us with?”          

              “Well, slayer, like you said.”

              “We need to know what this chick is going to be.”

              “Yeah, she might be good at support.”

              “Fuck, man, I don’t know. Should we wait and see what she’s thinking? I think we’re all pretty open. Maybe we should find people who want it like we want it, see if they have any definite opinions, and just work with that?”

              “I think we should at least figure out who we won’t play as,” said Chris. “I won’t touch Symmetra. I just don’t get it.”

              “I’m not a big Winston fan myself. And I’ve never been the best with aiming. Even in Halo 3 I had to rely on power weapons to keep the game in our favor.”

              “I don’t like Road Hog,” Remy said. “I just hate looking at him.”

              “Well you don’t have to fucking look at him while you play him.”

              “Yeah, but it’s just, like, the thought of it. I don’t know. Him and Junkrat. Ew.”

              “That’s stupid.”

              “What, and you don’t play Tracer for her ass?”

              “You can’t see her when you play as her.”

              “Whatever. I know your game.”

              “Shut up, woman.”

              “I think Mercy is hot.”

              “Shut up, Chris.”

              “No, he’s right. She’s pretty hot.” Remy finished off the last of the fries. The three of them agreed to continue the discussion online, as they played. Figuring out the five characters they wouldn’t play as, or couldn’t play properly, hoping to use that list to help guide their search for two new members for their team.


	5. Chapter 5

In a dusty hotel room, somewhere on a high floor (those were the expensive ones), Lindsay’s mom was texting. She was always texting. Her fingers blazed the touchscreen of her tiny phone. She kept it silent, thank God, and never looked up from it. Lindsay used to wonder what it was her mother was doing on that phone all the time. Maybe she’s just trying to help me, she thought. Or trying to score drugs. Either way, it left too much up to her imagination, and mother always said that too much thinking can ruin a winner’s mind.

          So one night, after helping her mother into a bottle of expensive wine, Lindsay swiped the phone and held onto it for the night. At first there was nary a sign of a message. Just complete silence. But in the morning, the earthquake level of vibrations shook Lindsay out of her sleep. The screen showed seventy text messages (some duplicates, some from the same person) and over fifty emails from various places. MLG, Blizzard, a designer on League of Legends, people whose addresses were in the 90210, where reality was staged and television was a way of life.

          From that moment on she stayed out of the phone’s way, and out of her mom’s way while she was on it. It was like watching an Olympic balance-board gymnast, forever standing one foot on the beam, almost losing balance but never falling A marvel of respect and fear.

          In that hotel room, five o’clock at night, her mother had told her to not bother her. That rarely happened. Lindsay assumed that at least double the usual messages were coming in. And she couldn’t help but feel wholly responsible. In a simple conversation her entire prerogative changed. No more computer, no more League of Legends. Both had been tossed out. They were distractions, remnants of a dead era. Her mother made a call and a PS4 was brought to the room by a weird Italian man who stared at Lindsay’s chest too much and had a crook in his step. They picked up a copy of Overwatch on the way home.

          “Lindsay,” her mother said. “My guy says this is going to be big.” She always said that. Her ‘guy’ was always giving her the scoop, and he was only wrong half the time. He was right about LoL, but he was wrong about Halo 4, which was an entire summer of her life she could never get back again. He was right about Turtle Beach, but wrong about VR. He still swears it’ll be big, but not now. “Soon, soon, I promise.”

          Lindsay had been ready to give up. They’d been to twenty states in two weeks, looking at teams, talking to teams, meeting coaches, ex-players, anyone. Her mother had done the talking for most of them, while Lindsay waited in the car. She could tell by the way her mother exited the building if the meeting had gone well. All of them had ended badly.

          Things were looking bleakest in the parking lot of the burger place. And things looked even worse through tear stained eyes as she told her mother what a waste of time it had been. “Lindsay,” she said. “My guy says this is going to be big.” And from there on Lindsay knew her life was turning. Not around, not into a better direction, but it was turning. There could be ruin down the road. A move back to Chicago’s South Side, menial day labor for her mother, and public school for Lindsay.

          Or it would end up like her mother always said. “You buy me a condo in Florida and we never look back.” Lindsay didn’t even like Florida but she liked the smile on her mother’s face when she talked about it. There was nothing behind it. Nothing in front of it. Just a smile.

          Overwatch it was.

          Lindsay studied footage, anything she could find on Youtube, and there wasn’t much. Twitch had a few professional streamers. One guy, AdmiralDarkAstericks, was a former LoL player. He’d beaten Lindsay’s team a year back at an invitational in Seattle. She felt better seeing that he too was switching to Overwatch.

          Using a console was the biggest issue. PCs were just better. There was no discussion to be had. Better graphics, better control, better hardware. Console gaming was for idiots who didn’t know how to sit properly at a desk. Cavemen, she called them. Cavemen played Halo, humans played CS:GO. But her mother said, like she always said, “my guy says this’ll be big.” She still wondered, as she looked at the stupid PS4 controller, if she could convince this team to switch to PC.

          There were twenty hours from the moment she sat down with the game to the time when she was supposed to try out. It was a moment of time to her, not long enough to master even one character from the game’s list. Sitting in front of the television her mother had brought up, she felt deadlocked. Spinnereting spider thoughts weaved webs through her brain, sewing self-doubt through the fibers of her being. Suddenly she wasn’t good at any games. She wasn’t fit to hold a controller. PC’s were weak and she had been a fool her entire life. She wasn’t Lindsay anymore, she was the stupid, bitch step-sister who had fucked up everything and dragged her mother around the country to end three hours from home in a hotel about to play a game that looked like it was for children so she could try out for a bunch of high schoolers for a teams that probably didn’t even exist so that she could maybe play in a tournament for a game that might not be on the circuit in a year.

          She couldn’t breathe.

          The collar of her shirt strangled her and no matter how hard she tugged on it, it constricted. Her life was moving like a play recap in her mind. Except the plays were all bad and the commentators liked to laugh a mock the losers. It was a fail’s of the week, and Geoff from Achievement Hunter was laughing at her as she lost her first match of Starcraft. It was an all-encompassing, existential dread that veiled around her and assaulted her with loss after loss after loss after…

          Then the microwave dinged.

          Dinner was ready. She got up, not thinking, unwrapped the leftover McDonald’s cheeseburger, and took a bite. She let the chewing be loud in her mind. In the corner, her mother had her knees tucked up to her chest, phone reflecting blue on her face, fingers faster than ever. She was smiling, Lindsay thought. She couldn’t be sure, but with the chewing in her ears, the first taste of food for the day hitting her tongue, she believed it could be a smile.

 

 

Vincent and Christy pulled away from each other, her a giggling mess and him out of breath. They sat still for a moment before he got up and went to the bathroom to pee. The used condom was tossed into the wastebasket and he looked at himself in the mirror. Christy opened her bedroom window and placed a box fan facing out. “For the smell,” she said. “Last thing I want is my mom to help me move in the smell of sex.”

          “You gonna want me to come visit you?”

          “Hell no,” she said. “I’ll have several boyfriends by next weekend.”

          “Oh yeah?”

          “You’ll be obsolete.”

          “Mhm,” she came back into the room. “Where’s my boxers?”

          “Check the sheets.”

          “I think you’ll be begging me to come by, babe.”

          “You wish.” She went into the bathroom as he slipped his boxers back on, laying back on the bed. “Do you gotta be somewhere?”

          “Huh?”

          “Like, do you have somewhere to go?” She peaked out of the bathroom, hands putting her hair up.

          “You trying to kick me out, babe?”

          “What if I am, sweetie?” Back into the bathroom with a smile.

          “Yeah, I got shit to do. Don’t gotta worry about me bein’ all lonely.”

          “I just know you miss me all the time.” Back in the bedroom she slipped a big shirt on. “But no, really, I just promised some people I’d do something with them. I’m late already.”

          “I’m sure they’ll forgive you.”

          “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m kinda leavin’ them in a tough spot anyways.”

          “You got another guy, babe?”

          “Oh yeah. You know, that big football player. He’s black. He loves to go down on me.”

          “I heard he’s gay.”

          “Funny,” she said. “I hear that about you all the time.”

          “Ha, ha. For real though, what’s going on?”

          “Oh, Vin, really, it’s nothing. Nothing serious anyways. Just my sister and her friends.”

          “Aren’t they freshman?”

          “Sophomores now.”

          “Right.”

          “We just like, we have this team you could say.”

          “Oh yeah?”

          “Yeah,” she said, slipping her underwear back on and finding a pair of shorts. “And I’m leaving them without a full team now.”

          “Sounds devastating.”

          “It kinda is. I’ll miss playing with them.”

          “What do ya play?”

          “Overwatch now.”

          “No shit?”

          “You know it?”

          “Who the fuck doesn’t? My boys and I play it like all the time. We’re nuts about it.” She sat opposite of him on the bed and put her socks on. “How come you never talked about it before? We coulda played together.”

          “You would’ve rather have played that than play with me?”

          “We coulda done both.”

          “Barely have time for this.”

          “That’s why we do it at the same time. Double the fun.”

          “Maybe you can try that on the next girl.”

          “She won’t be as good as you,” he said.

          “That’s sweet.”

          “Hey,” he said. “I mean it.” He grabbed her hand. She stopped and looked at him. “This has been a cool summer.”

          “Don’t you mean…hot…summer?”

          “I hate you so much.”

          They kissed and she pulled back. “I really gotta kick you out.”

          “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Tell your sister’s friends to hit me up if they wanna play.”

          “You wouldn’t want to play with them. Trust me.”

          “Hey, if you like them they can’t be that bad.”

          “They’re sophomores, Vincent.”

          “I’m just sayin’.”

          “That’s very sweet of you.” She stood, buttoning her shorts. “Now skootch. Out, out.”

          Vincent stood and grabbed his shirt from the floor and his jeans. Christy pushed him out of the room and into the hall. He stood half naked on the hardwood floor. A door closed next to him. Standing there, in shorts and a tank top, was Remy. Vincent looked her up and down. “Hello,” he said.

          “Hi, Vincent.”

          “Oh, so you do know me.”

          “Well, yeah.”

          “You just never talk to me when I’m here.”

          “I hear enough about you from Christy.”

          “All bad things, I hope.”

          “Yeah,” she said. She looked down at her feet. Her cheeks were a hue of red.

          “She just kicked me out cause you guys are about to game.”

          “Oh yeah?”  
          “Yeah.” He looked at her face and she looked up, meeting his eyes before turning away quickly. “You guys play Overwatch.”  
          “Yeah.”

          “I fuckin’ love that game. Reindhardt’s my shit. So’s Junkrat.”

          “Oh?”

          “Yeah.” He stepped closer to her, edging past her down the hall. “I should probably go now.”

          “Your pants.”

          “Huh?”  
          “Your pants. You should put them on first.”

          “Oh shit. Forgot.” He dropped his shirt and put his jeans on right there.

          “There’s a bathroom right there.”

          “This bother you?” He let his jeans hang on his hips unbuttoned. Remy’s eyes went from his crotch up to his flat stomach.

          “Yes,” she whispered.

          Remy’s bedroom door opened. “Remy! Oh, shit, didn’t…see…you…” Cameron slumped out of the doorway, looking from Remy to Vincent, then back to Remy. She looked away, covering her face slightly. “Chris said he was thirsty. Did you want to walk with us to the store?”

          “Christy should be ready now.”

          “Yeah, champ,” Vincent said. “She’s all yours now.”

          “Don’t fuckin’ call me champ.”

          “Woah,” Vincent said. “Bit of a tight wad.”

          “Woah there,” Cameron said. “Kind of a douche bag.”

          “Cameron,” Remy said.

          “I should go,” he said. Cameron and him locked eyes. “Have fun with your game.”

          “Bye,” Cameron said. Vincent gave Remy another look over and headed down the stairs. “The fuck were you doing talking to that guy?”

          “I ran into him in the hall, Cam. Why were you such a douche to him?”

          “Me? He called me champ. What is he, my fuckin’ step dad?”

          “It’s just a word, Cam.”

          “Yeah, a word a douche bag says to make someone seem small.”

          “Whatever.”

          “You going to the store with us or not?”  
          “I don’t feel like it.”

          “Whatever.”

          “What’s going on?”

          “Shut up, Chris. Let’s go.”

          “Remy coming?”

          “I don’t feel like it, Chris.”

          “Sorry,” he said.

          They walked down the stairs and Remy stood in the hall for a moment longer, feeling hot inside her chest.

         


End file.
